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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394716">god save the king.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/falciente/pseuds/falciente'>falciente</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>king of arguments, king of henrietta, king of camaros. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Kissing in cars, M/M, Sloppy Makeouts, kavinsky is only mentioned, makeouts in a car, obviously i love cars and the boys who drive them, so its all just, this doesnt really need an explicit rating but i love sounding cool, this is separate from my other fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:00:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/falciente/pseuds/falciente</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan lifts the glasses from the bag next and presses the button beside the earpieces, and they ignite in the dark interior, flashing a pink flush of color over the crackled vinyl and the front of Ronan’s shirt. “Might keep these.”</p><p>Gansey looks up in time to see him putting them on. The pink glow floods over his features in a cascade, lighting up the edges of his jaw, the dip of his cheekbones where they meet his eyes. The bottom points of the hearts gently press into the skin, and Gansey can feel his heartbeat rising beneath his collarbone until its slamming against his sternum, and his mouth feels like he’s eaten bedsheets, and he’d like to respond but the fear of accidentally coughing his heart onto the dashboard refuses to leave.</p><p>“Jesus,” Gansey says, and then: “Maybe you should.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Richard Gansey III &amp; Ronan Lynch, Richard Gansey III/Ronan Lynch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>king of arguments, king of henrietta, king of camaros. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611889</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>god save the king.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hellooo, i know this isn't part ii to my kavinsky series, i just think they are NEAT. </p><p>this doesn't really need an explicit rating, there's just some long descriptions of kissing. per usual, if you like my stuff, please consider leaving kudos or, even more appreciated, a comment / feedback!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s raining in Henrietta, and somewhere in the distance, a Mitsubishi is howling a mournful and angry note. The sky is an empty blanket, the moon the ghost of a reflection behind heavy clouds, and the trees and the sheer emptiness of it all is whipping past the Camaro at what feels like (but isn’t) lightspeed. Gansey can feel blood roaring in his ears, fighting with the sound of raindrops pelting the car and the lashing noise the occasional oncoming vehicle makes as it passes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Small towns become otherworldly in the right lighting, and this is one of those moments. They pass Aglionby, with its gloriously aged foundation and dusty windows, parking lot sitting empty. It’s late, but not </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly </span>
  </em>
  <span>so, not for someone like Gansey. If Ronan would have been asleep, he would have felt some guilt for waking him, but Gansey could hear the electronics screaming in his headphones long before he had opened the bedroom door. And now, the Camaro is surging on the road, daring them to trust it. Gansey does, always, but Ronan feels something more blatant for the Camaro.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As they draw closer to the inner workings of town, the streetlights become more frequent, and Gansey can hear their buzzing just by glancing at them. He’s watching the road but he’s also watching the way that the yellow lighting curls over the Camaro’s hood, and, out of the corner of his vision, he’s watching the way that it etches Ronan into even harder lines. That’s all Ronan is anymore, and Gansey feels a bit empty thinking about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Too much orange juice can kill you.” Ronan says, and it makes Gansey jolt, and then frown.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Camaro’s engine hiccups slightly as Gansey rounds a hard corner; he’s frowning so hard now that his eyes are crinkling at the corners, and he cocks his head to the side a bit, thoughtful. “I don’t think that’s true, Ronan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Too much of anything can kill you.” Ronan is smiling the sort of smile that means he is absolutely fucking with Gansey, and Gansey is going to fall right into the trap. It’s only routine, and sometimes, Gansey does it just for the sake of the familiar feeling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, Jesus, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>guess </span>
  </em>
  <span>so.” Gansey scoffs, wrestling the Camaro gently away from the curb when the passenger side begins to tremble over the edge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Or it can cause those painful blisters in your mouth,” Ronan continues. He leans slightly away from the door when it rattles along the curb of the road, only settling once they’re centered again. The streetlights are rendering him golden.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ronan,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gansey says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Camaro’s engine is slamming against itself beneath the hood, pistons rioting and sparks igniting. By the time they turn into the parking lot of the dollar store, empty save for the orange mass now present, the interior of the car has begun to smell hazardously of gasoline and burnt oil. It could probably do with an oil change, honestly, but cars (especially </span>
  <em>
    <span>old </span>
  </em>
  <span>cars) are not a language that Gansey is fluent in. He admires the Camaro for different reasons entirely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they exit the Camaro and go inside, Gansey is flashing the single cashier that presidential smile, the smile that says he doesn’t need to shop here and is only doing it to pass the time, he could afford something far more expensive. She doesn’t return it, but Gansey doesn’t dwell on it, and Ronan’s smile is the edge of a knife in her direction when Gansey’s back is turned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The store is not very neat, and that’s okay. Packages litter the floors in some of the aisles, the shelves flashing empty locations here and there. It smells too much like cleaning supplies, the lights are humming an unwavering tune, and one of them is flickering, and Gansey can feel a headache building behind his right temple. His eyes are burning beneath the fluorescents, but it’s not enough to put him to sleep if he were to return to Monmouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He glances over his shoulder. Ronan catches his eye almost immediately, as though he were poised and waiting for Gansey to look at him, and he’s holding up something pink-red between his fingers. “For Kavinsky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gansey takes in the heart-shaped sunglasses, but a few moments later Ronan is pressing a button, and they’re lighting up and flashing all along the edges, and his grin is wicked, brows edging closer to each other, and Gansey is laughing abruptly and loudly enough that he hears the cashier up front clear her throat a few seconds after. He rubs at his face, nudging his glasses upwards a bit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get them. You should get them. They’re a dollar.” Gansey’s smiling, a daring thing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No shit, it’s the dollar store,” Ronan replies, not maliciously. Gansey notices he doesn’t put the glasses back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re moving closer to the drink coolers at the back of the store, and while Ronan is grabbing two small bottles of juice, Gansey is picking a mint-chocolate </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>off of another shelf. When Ronan sees it in his hand, he screws up his face, but Gansey ignores him. They’re closer to the cashier now and she’s staring holes into their backs, another flattered fan of Aglionby boys. It’s a label the two of them cannot escape, pulling into the parking lot in an orange monstrosity of a Camaro, Gansey taking long strides in his top-siders and peach polo shirt, Ronan moving more slowly in torn jeans and a black t-shirt, buying nonsense without ever looking at price tags or whispering the total to themselves thoughtfully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gansey doesn’t attempt polite smalltalk with her when they check out. She doesn’t look directly at them, doesn’t even tell them their total, just waits for the swipe of a card. There’s no goodbye when they leave, and he swears he hears her scoff when they’re going outside, as if thanking God Himself that they’re gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She was nice,” Gansey’s shifting the bag from one hand to the other, jiggling the Camaro’s driver side door open. Ronan is trying to dig into the bag on his arm at the same time, fighting between the handle holes to get inside. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ronan, </span>
  </em>
  <span>give me a second, will you? Here,” he passes him one of the small juice containers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She hated you.” Ronan dips his head as he climbs into the car, bracing the cup between his thighs while he lifts and slams the door. Lift and slam, lift and slam, it’s the only way it closes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me? You absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>fiend, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she loathed both of us.” Gansey laughs when he sits down, digging through the contents of the bag (heart-shaped sunglasses, another orange juice, a card that Ronan will no doubt attach to the glasses) and pulls out the chocolate bar, snapping it between his teeth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ronan lifts the glasses from the bag next and presses the button beside the earpieces, and they ignite in the dark interior, flashing a pink flush of color over the crackled vinyl and the front of Ronan’s shirt. “Might keep these.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gansey looks up in time to see him putting them on. The pink glow floods over his features in a cascade, lighting up the edges of his jaw, the dip of his cheekbones where they meet his eyes. The bottom points of the hearts gently press into the skin, and Gansey can feel his heartbeat rising beneath his collarbone until its slamming against his sternum, and his mouth feels like he’s eaten bedsheets, and he’d like to respond but the fear of accidentally coughing his heart onto the dashboard refuses to leave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jesus,” Gansey says, and then: “Maybe you should.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sees Ronan’s eyebrows raise a bit, and when he removes the glasses, still flickering in his hand, he’s staring at him and Gansey thinks if he found Glendower right </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d ask him to let the world know that there’s a treasure in Henrietta, Virginia, and it’s his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably will.” It’s Ronan who breaks the silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you mind if I tried something?” Gansey asks, and he’s forcing himself to stare at the window right next to Ronan’s head, into the Henrietta emptiness and the lonesome parking lot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What kind of question is that?” Ronan exhales a little gust of air, a little note of rebellion, when he responds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Gansey kisses him across the console, there’s an upturn to his nose from their closeness, his glasses pressing upwards into his hair and sweat and skin, and Ronan doesn’t pull away, and that leaves Gansey breathless with relief. He’s trying to breathe, but his lungs feel like the Camaro engine, hammering and gasping and pulling, pulling, pulling. His heart is beating like Ronan is a live wire he’s just grabbed ahold of, and the feeling is surging through every nerve in his body, and he feels like he’s going to pass out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause between the two of them. They aren’t far apart, and Ronan is staring at him with eyes like ice, and Gansey is </span>
  <em>
    <span>going </span>
  </em>
  <span>to pass out. And then Ronan reaches forward and slowly, carefully, removes Gansey’s wire-frame glasses, and their lips are meeting again, and Gansey has not passed out yet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ronan kisses like he does everything: sharply, like Gansey is toying with a knife between his teeth rather than another boy. Gansey’s mouth is slipping over his and its clumsy and ridiculous, it’s two boys in a Camaro discovering one of the secrets of the universe. One of Gansey’s knees is digging into the center console when he twists in his seat, the other foot pressed to the floorboard near the gas pedal, and Ronan tastes like orange juice, and Gansey figures he must taste like mint chocolate, and he can think of worse things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a pushing and pulling thing; Ronan pulling at Gansey and Gansey pushing at Ronan, back and forth, the Camaro’s console their gravity line. It’s Gansey who breaks away first, again, and he inhales in the dark, and then there’s a fluttering sort of silence. And he’s afraid, very suddenly, that he has just broken something they had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Gansey says, voice hoarse. “I should apologize.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Ronan cuts him off very quickly, but the word isn’t awkward, and he’s looking at him with a sort of intent. After a moment, he carefully returns Gansey’s glasses. “We’re good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Gansey’s watching him as he starts the Camaro, as the lines beneath their feet begin to tremble and ignite. “We’re okay.”</span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think </span>
  <em>
    <span>we </span>
  </em>
  <span>could </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be okay, Gansey.”</span>
</p>
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